Dearly Departed
by acegallifreya
Summary: Two ships passing in the night
It was twelve years ago now.

That first year he had felt obligated to at least show his face for the Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts, returning to Hogwarts with those who had participated, those who had lost family and friends, and sundry Ministry officials, reporters and curious onlookers.

Smaller gatherings had been made in later years, with a larger official event again at the fifth year and the massive gathering on the tenth.

It was always a strange feeling to stand there and remember all that had happened, the celebratory public atmosphere of the day tainted for him with the memory of those who had died. The brief reading of the names and the memorial never seemed to quite encompass it for him.

He always paused on the way up to the castle, detouring to the white tomb near the lake.

He did not return to Hogwarts at all this year, though. His mind had wandered in other directions lately, his conflicted feelings somewhat blunted with the passing years, but not forgotten.

It had taken some time after the battle to accomplish anything for this man's public legacy. The portrait now hanging in Headmistress McGonagall's office was a fairly recent addition. He'd never intended to share that silvery, liquid-smoke gift he still kept hidden under the false bottom of a desk drawer at home, but he'd ultimately been obligated to share them with several parties in the end.

He shivered slightly to remember that day, when he had taken Kingsley Shacklebolt and several other Ministry of Magic officials inside a borrowed Pensieve. He'd added one more strand of his own to the collection, of how he'd obtained the memories to begin with. By the time they left the pensieve, he was in a cold sweat and feeling shaky and ill.

Then there was the matter of Rita Skeeter's rubbish, published a few years ago. He'd written to the editorial page of the Daily Prophet with his opinion of the pack of lies and half-truths, but the damned thing flew off the shelves regardless, like all of her poison.

He'd hated this man. He'd hated him in a way he had not even hated Voldemort.

He still did, in a way. But it was not so simple, anymore. No, this year was different. He'd avoided this moment for over a decade, but somehow he knew the time had come to put certain matters to rest.

* * *

He remembered the somewhat shabby and overgrown cemetery vividly. It had taken Harry quite some time to even find it, to find the place where the small, unadorned urn that haunted him for months could be put to rest for good.

The name Prince graced most of the headstones, worn marble weathered by time. The oldest stones could not be read at all. The most recent addition was a small black granite stone set into the ground.

 _Severus Snape_

 _9 January 1960 - 2 May 1998_

At the time he could not think of any fitting epitaph, and so there was none. The ceremony had been exceedingly brief and he had been unable to speak, some unidentifiable mix of emotions clogging his throat at the time. Ron and Hermione stood by silently and Ginny had held his hand.

He had not shed any tears at the time, but as he left afterward, he'd felt some part of himself had been placed into that grave as well.

* * *

It was clear and sunny, a cool late spring breeze pushing a few white clouds on their way. Small birds and insects flitted about the trees and shrubbery.

His mood by contrast was rather greyer as he approached the rusted gate of the cemetery, eyes trained on the stone path under his feet. He'd only been here once but he remembered the path as if he'd tread it a thousand times.

He nearly froze mid-stride when he looked up. A thin, dark figure was standing over the grave of Severus Snape. It might have been a statue but for the slight movement of the wind plucking at strands of hair and shifting the cloth of a simple black dress.

He stood in the middle of the path for several long minutes, hesitating to approach. Who could possibly be visiting the grave of Severus Snape? Harry knew he was mostly alone in his regard for the man's bravery. He knew most took Skeeter's line on the matter - that he was mostly a rather nasty sort who had only done any good because Albus Dumbledore had somehow manipulated or coerced him into it.

Tamping down his unease, Harry forced himself into movement, walking softly up behind the older woman, stopping a few feet beside her. She did not move or seem to notice his presence. He looked down at the grave marker, then glanced up at her profile.

He did not need to ask her name.

Harry had thought that she was likely dead, but there was no mistaking Eileen Prince. Years had passed since he'd seen a brief memory of her younger self in Snape's mind, during those wretched occlumency lessons in his fifth year, but even if he had not, the resemblance was unmistakable.

Her hair was no longer the solid, shiny raven's-wing black of her youth, but a dark steel-gray with a few lingering ebony strands. Age and suffering had lined her face beyond her years, but Harry's mind overlayed her son's features (sans Snape nose) on her profile with relative ease, the sharp cheekbones and arched eyebrows, the thin feminine tapered jaw and chin.

Minutes passed in relative silence, only the buzzing of insects and the fussing of a nesting songbird arguing with a bothersome crow to break the stillness.

The statue finally moved, the chin tilting in his direction. She regarded him askance, not quite meeting his eyes. He mentally counted, making it to five before her gaze came to rest on his somewhat faded curse scar and recognition fired behind her eyes.

"You're Harry Potter."

No shock of surprise, no smile, no wonder. Just a simple statement of fact.  
He nodded, turning to face her directly.

She stared at him openly now, her expression somewhat pained or perhaps confused. He waited for her to speak again, perhaps to introduce herself, but she did not.

"You're Eileen Prince," he offered, finally. She did not respond, so he continued, the silence beginning to unnerve him.

"I… I don't know why, but I always assumed his parents had died."

She turned back to her son's grave, shaking her head. "My husband has been dead for many years."

The day was warm and pleasant, but Harry wrapped his arms around himself, feeling chilled by the breeze.

"I'm…. I guess it's about twelve years too late, but I'm sorry for your loss, nonetheless."

She looked up again, her eyes narrowing at him in a familiar way and her mouth slightly open. He wasn't sure if she was offended or merely confused, but he blushed slightly under her scrutiny. She shook her head slightly and turned away.

He felt rooted to the turf under his feet, wondering now why he really came here this day. To make his peace with a man long dead? He bit back a laugh that he knew would be misunderstood by his unlooked-for companion. The woman shifted on her feet, taking a step back.

"I hadn't seen him for years before he died. We.. we didn't speak again after his father died."

Harry nodded at her but did not know what to say to that. He wasn't surprised if Snape had not had a close relationship with his mother. She pulled at the cloth of her skirt, wringing it between her hands.

"I think I was too ashamed to come find him again... I know I failed him, Mr. Potter."

Harry swallowed thickly, feeling like a voyeur on something he had no right to witness. He ducked his head, staring instead at a random stone on the ground, wishing now that he'd just gone to Hogwarts as usual. He took another step back, shaking his head as if in denial of something. He couldn't deny her, really. Scraps of memory only told so much; he simply didn't know enough.

"He… he was a brave man. He wasn't a coward."

Harry flinched slightly as a thin, soft hand gripped at his shoulder. He looked up and then away again, unable to stand the sight of the woman's tears.

Too many years had passed. Too much had happened. He didn't know the half of it. Neither did she, really.

She let go of him finally, fishing a handkerchief out of a pocket to wipe her face as she turned away from him, walking back up the path toward the cemetery gate.

He watched her receding back for a moment, then sprinted after her, stopping at the gate before she could reach it.

"Ma'am… um…"

He shook his head, trying to dispell his anxiety.

"If you ever want to talk or… or anything, just send me an owl. I don't mind. We could meet for coffee, or something, maybe?"

She cocked her head to the side slightly, tracks of tears still reflecting sunlight. After some moment of indecision, she nodded once, sharply.

"Perhaps, Mr. Potter. I'll keep your invitation in mind."

The slate-haired witch stepped past him, through the gate, and apparated into the spring air with a soft pop.

* * *

author's note: This scene was an off-the-cuff one shot that came out of a convo on tumblr, but I liked it enough to put up here


End file.
